Ello

Writing begins with letting go. You let go of who you are, of whom your body reminds you you are. You leave the person that just got up from the cold sheets and forcibly drank a stale cup of coffee. You flush the plans of the day. You let go of the known ones. You no longer feel the clothes on your skin, and you do your best to observe your mind without influencing it. You wave a goodbye to her last smile and her last smell. You miss her a lot, and that you can't rid yourself of, yet there's still plenty of life without her as well.

You walk away.

In this new place, everything that happens flows through you. You're dreaming and you're aware. You start expressing whatever comes next, no purpose, no control. You're indulgent with whatever comes. Sometimes there's an overflowing feeling of joy, sometimes it's steel blades. They're yours, all fragments. They need to come out so that they can live on their own. The fear that you might wander too far doesn't reach you. The frustration that it won't come out the way you feel it is dim. You keep doing it, you keep peeling layers and layers of pictures until you reach the blank.

Then you start reading your story like it's someone else's. You take out the blurb and fill in the gaps. Or not. You just leave it as it is. It's a seed you planted, one day it will bloom. Or not. Now it just is.